His problem has brought him into jail more times than he can remember, Cook says, adding, "I tried to get it together but I had a bad divorce and, well, I'm back."

It's a familiar story. From young people enmeshed in gang life to chronic drunks, streetwalkers and drug users, tens of thousands of repeat offenders pass each year through San Francisco County Jail One, the intake facility on the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice. Some of the inmates are hardened felons, others lead lives on the edge of criminality, where frequent stays in jail are routine.

"After a while this is their house," says Lt. Rick Garibaldi, the evening watch commander. "They get their meals here, they get their mail here, they see their buddies here. This is the rotary club for inmates."

Over a three week period in which The Examiner was allowed to closely observe life in the jail, Garibaldi's comments were frequently echoed by deputies who see the same faces over and over again.

"It's a revolving door in here," said Deputy Milton Gee.

"They come in and they go back out and they come in again."

Fifty percent of those arrested in San Francisco are African American and 26 percent are Hispanic, according to a Sheriff's Department study. Most of those arrested come from The City's poorer neighborhoods. One-third of the estimated 55,000 booked into the jail each year face drug charges, according to the sheriff's office. About 6,000 are booked for prostitution, 10,000 for alcohol related offenses.

It is part of the jail's function to move these inmates back out to the street again as rapidly as possible. A number of long-standing jail programs are aimed at getting inmates out of jail, not keeping them inside.

"We have these programs in an effort to remove the monetary discrimination from the criminal justice system," explained Sheriff Michael Hennessey.

In most cases, prisoners have the right to post bail, he noted, but many don't have the resources to raise bail.

Prisoners with relatively minor charges, such as misdemeanor drug possession and petty theft, are sent to Super Cite, short for Supervised Citation. Run by the Center for Juvenile and Criminal Justice, the program releases people, with a judge's approval, as long as they have ties to the community and promise to show up for their court dates. Super Cite monitors their compliance with court dates.

The OR Project, short for Own Recognizance, is a similar program for felony inmates, run by a nonprofit foundation set up for this purpose in San Francisco.

If the inmate is non-violent, has a local contact number and relatives who will vouch for him in the area, he may be eligible for release on his own recognizance (without bail).

These programs are designed to prevent overcrowding and to keep San Francisco's intake jail in compliance with an ongoing federal consent decree. Sheriff Hennessey says that without the release programs the jail's population would rise by as much as 500 prisoners above the current average of about 2,000 inmates a day.

About 75 percent of those released by the programs later show up for court, Hennessey says.

The consent decree mandates fines of $300 per prisoner per day if the jail again becomes overcrowded. In the past, the order has cost The City more than $2 million in fines.

Some inmates, such as hookers and drunks, are almost always released after being held for a few hours and charges are rarely filed.

The sheriff's office also has instituted a number of reforms aimed at breaking the cycle of recidivism through work training, drug treatment and other programs.

"If we can make changes with the rabble that is in our jails - and we have made changes - even if it is reducing recidivism by just 10 percent, then it is worth it," said Assistant Sheriff Michael Marcum, who is in charge of reform programs for the department.

According to Marcum, who did prison time himself about 30 years ago for killing his father, about 100 inmates a year now earn their GED inside jail and others are getting hooked up with drug treatment programs.

Deputies are skeptical about these programs. It is hard to find anyone working in the intake facility who believes in reform or rehabilitation of prisoners.

"It does not work. Reforms, programs - it really does not work," said Deputy Lise Armijo. "Why? Because I see them back here. Time and again I see them back here. This is not a treatment program. It's not a hospital. It's a jail."

Deputy Mike Shapiro said, "Why do we just let them go? It's pointless. What we need are more cells, more spaces. There are a lot of vacant buildings in the city. Why not use those for jail cells?"

Marcum responds: "They see the same faces, but they are seeing fewer of them because the programs are working for some people. It takes time."

For Debra "Jazzy" Allen, programs are not the point. Jail is just another place to be. She's been a prostitute and a drug addict for 18 years, she says. This night, she was arrested on Sixth Street for possession of suspected crack cocaine. Later, she would get a good news / bad news message. Bad: she was swindled and the crack was bogus. Good: this means she will be released the next day.

Laughing and preening, Allen, 37, says she has been high on cocaine for the last three days.

"Why do you do it, Jazzy?" asks a deputy, who has seen Allen coming into the jail for several years. "Why don't you stop? You're going downhill. I can see it."

"Oh, you know," says Allen. "This is me, honey, this is what I do."

Looking on is a younger woman, who calls herself T.C. and is working as a trusty on the women's side while she does her first serious stretch of jail time, three months on a drug charge.

T.C. says she can turn $40 into $1,000 by hustling drugs on the street for a night. "See, you got to keep it moving. Keep it turning," she says. "That's how you do it."

Just 21 and single, T.C. has a baby and gives money to her mother to care for the child and pay for the family home. She is proud of being smart and says she graduated at the top of her class in high school.

T.C. says the alliances she has built on The City's streets can keep her safe and allow her to move in many areas that might otherwise be dangerous. "I watch out," she says, "but I gots my people."

What about prison and more jail time? Isn't that inevitable?

"I ain't never been to prison," she says, "but I can't say I won't ever go to prison. If they can catch me, they can catch me."

So why not leave? Get a job?

"Naw, that's not it," she says. "It's not easy to leave the game once you're in the game. Once you're in it, you are in it for life. Once you are a dope dealer, that's it. It's a do or die thing out there.&lt;